Page 21 of Water's Edge

I think about the dead woman. The nameless woman. The woman who was tortured, probably raped, chained up somewhere like a dog, then dumped on a beach to be found.

I get up and take down a box from the top of my closet. The box contains dozens of mini-cassette tapes of my sessions with Dr. Karen Albright, my psychologist. I place the box on the desk. It’s heavy.Who knew words could weigh so much?I sit down, pick out a tape, and put it in the little recorder. I get up and go to the fridge to get a glass of wine and bring the box and a plastic tumbler from an Idaho motel back to the desk. I twist the knob on the wine box and white zinfandel fills the tumbler.

Sipping wine, I think about how Dr. Albright brought me back from the precipice that had been my world since I was born.

I recollect how her blue eyes scared me at first. Such a pale blue. Almost otherworldly. How her office smelled of microwave popcorn. How much I grew to trust her. I was twenty when I first saw her. Defensive. Closed off like a street barricade. I had never let anyone inside, but I was smart enough to know that everything inside of me—from my experiences to the bloodline of my birth—had to be exorcized somehow. I’d been traumatized, and while I couldn’t see it in the mirror, others did. Night terrors in a college dorm are traumatic and uniquely embarrassing. You don’t know what you said, if anything. You don’t know if anyone heard your screams.

I open the windows and drink the wine. The box is calling me.

“You’ll want these someday,” Dr. Albright said.

I refused the gift at first. “I can’t see that happening.”

She smiled, a warm calming smile. “Trust me. You will. The day will come and listening to the tapes will make you even stronger.” She put her arms around me. We both cried. We held each other for a long time. I knew it wasn’t goodbye forever, but it was the end of therapy that had spanned a year and a half. At that time I was graduating from college with a degree in criminology and had plans for the police academy in suburban Seattle.

I draw a breath and peer inside. A boxful of cassettes, each numbered with the dates on which they were recorded. I switch to Scotch. I’ve taken to keeping a bottle of Cutty Sark in a drawer in the desk. It’s cheap but fair. I used to buy a more expensive single malt. One of the “Glens”: Glenfiddich, Glenmorangie, Glenlivet. Then I discovered that after the first drink it all tasted the same. I order the real stuff only when I’m in public.

I know I’m stalling. I was drawn to listen to the tapes of my sessions with Dr. Albright, but this case brought the anguish from the past back with a vengeance. Still, I’m curious. I turn on the player.

I hear a short hiss while the audio begins.

Karen Albright starts off with a reminder that I’m not alone on the journey. She tells me I’m strong. This is the path to healing. I remember I wanted to believe that, but my gut told me it was complete and utter bullshit. Deep inside, I knew beyond any doubt, I’d never heal.

Dr. A: Close your eyes, Rylee. Tell me about meeting Aunt Ginger.

She calls me by the only name she knew. Her voice is full of concern and sincerity. I know, or Ifeel,that she is a good person. She believes she can help. I didn’t want to close my eyes, but I did.

And I close them now. Thinking about the tortured body of the woman who is now a piece of evidence on the stainless steel table. Being dissected by a pathologist after being bound and beaten, abused, like an animal. Her life was taken, but, worse, her dignity and worth as a human being was stripped away by force. Helpless, becoming hollow, drawing into the mind to escape the horror of what was and what was to come. I think of my mother and how she lived this nightmare.

I stop the tape. I punch the “play” button and force myself to concentrate on the words. I can hear myself take a deep breath.

Me: There was no air in the room. I let out a gasp and Aunt Ginger is all over me. I don’t need CPR. I push her away. I understand what she said but I feel like the room is spinning and I’m unable to grab ahold of the meaning of her words.

I think about the autopsy tomorrow. I push it down deep and listen to my words.

Me: Aunt Ginger asks me, “Honey are you all right? Put your head between your knees.” Of course I’m not all right. In the last twenty-four hours I’ve lost my mom, pulled a knife from my dead stepfather’s chest, found out that my biological dad is a serial killer. And not only did he want my mom, he wants me. Upset doesn’t cover it.

Dr. A: You’re safe here, Rylee.

Me: Am I? Am I really ever safe anywhere?

I can hear myself let out a breath. I’m calming down. I don’t know this woman, Ginger, the sister of my mom, the aunt I never knew I had, but I knew she meant well. I remember she had lines around her eyes that underscored the anxiety she’s held inside since her sister, my mom, disappeared.

Dr. A: What did you mean when you said your biological father wanted you?

Me: He found out my mom was pregnant. He kidnapped her, held her like a toy, raped and tortured her, but she escaped. And she had me. My aunt said he’d made it known that he felt I belonged to him. That my mom still belonged to him. I felt a rush of bile. I could never belong to that rapist. That monster. I belonged to the dad that raised me. The dad that creep of a bio father murdered. My hands were shaking, and my aunt looked me right in the eyes and said, “Rylee, I was there when he came for her . . . and for you.”

Dr. A: Go on. What happened?

Me: I asked my aunt what she meant. Was she there when I was born? I was a little angry that she knew me and I didn’t know about her. Aunt Ginger said I was born in the hospital there in Idaho. She had volunteered to be Mom’s birthing coach. Mom was just sixteen when I was born. The same age I was when I found out all of this. My mom didn’t want to look at me, then she said she was glad she had a girl. I found out she said that because if it—if I—had been a boy, she was afraid she’d see her kidnapper’s likeness. Aunt Ginger told her I didn’t look like him. I wondered how Aunt Ginger could know that, but she told me later that a policeman had showed up at the hospital and brought flowers. He was my biological dad. The serial killer. A cop.

The tape player shuts off. My mind instantly switches back to the case—a defense mechanism, I’m sure. I need to send a full-face photo and physical description to all the surrounding law enforcement agencies to see if they have any record, had any contact, with my Jane Doe.

I hate calling her that. Depersonalizes her. I’ll give her a name and decide to call the victim Jane Snow.

I get on the phone and call Dispatch. Someone new answers the phone and I don’t want to talk with someone new. I finally get Susie.

“Susie, I need you to put out an all-points bulletin.”

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